


You Drive Me Crazy

by Miss_L



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slash, To follow, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is ignoring his health again, John is an exasperated mother, and there is kissage. And other stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angryangryowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angryangryowl/gifts).



> Prompt fill for the lovely Angryangryowl, who is awesome! <3

John came down for breakfast – well, normal people call it “supper”, but he had just woken up from his post-nightshift-sleep – and almost tripped over his own feet when he caught a glimpse of his flatmate. Sherlock was sitting in his usual leather chair, in his usual thinking position, no doubt mulling over some detail of their current case. Nothing out of the ordinary, then, except he was wet. Not just clammy or humid. No, downright _soaked_ and shivering from the cold. And he was obviously too deep in thought to notice his own discomfort, or too self-destructive to care.

“Sherlock!” John’s shout snapped the consulting detective out of his reflection and earned him a crooked smile – he had found the solution, then. The smirk quickly faded when he noticed the deep frown on John’s rapidly approaching face. The good doctor didn't even bother with words this time – he was so angry, his head was almost visibly fuming. Out of sheer surprise, Sherlock let himself be jerked upright and dragged up the stairs. He finally regained his wits and stubbornness as John turned on the light in the bathroom, and braced his hands against the doorframe.

“John. What’s going on? What are you doing?” If there was a slight edge of panic to his voice, then well… Watson had surprised him, and Sherlock didn't surprise – or scare – easily.

“Sherlock.” John pursed his lips, trying to fish words out of the rage-coloured fog in his mind. “You’re going to be _sick_ , don’t you realise that?” he finally managed, prouder than ever of his self-control. The genius-slash-5-year-old was difficult enough to handle on a good day; when he was completely submerged in a case, it became worse. In fact, the only thing John dreaded more than Sherlock’s engrossment in anything, was Sherlock’s boredom between cases. That… That was worse than babysitting a herd of Tiggers on crack. And John didn't even want to think what a bored _and_ ill Sherlock would be like to deal with. 

The taller man finally really _looked_ at his friend. Pursed lips, dilated pupils, elevated breathing and beginnings of a flush on his face – high blood pressure, not a condition John was prone to. He was really angry, then. Best to give him what he wants, even though Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what this was about. So what if he was wet? He was a healthy male and- His train of thought was interrupted by a loud sneeze, and John’s face grew a shade darker.

“Take off your clothes. Now.” Sherlock obeyed grudgingly. His hands were shaking badly, so John helped him with the buttons and the zips. Doctor Watson had seen enough naked people in his practice as (army) medic. He appreciated a beautiful body as much as the next man, but he was completely in doctor-mode now, and couldn't care less that Sherlock’s arse was somewhat more pert than he remembered from their visit to Buckingham. Or that his overall musculature was worthy of Michelangelo’s chisel. Right now, he was focused on getting his “patient” warmed up.

John rolled up his sleeves and got the shower running, noting absentmindedly that Sherlock wasn't even fidgeting out of modesty or shame – no doubt another social convention he found idiotic. Holmes the younger’s movements had, in fact, slowed down and then halted completely by the time the water was hot enough. He was deep in contemplation again and it took all of John’s strength to get him into the shower and all of his dexterity not to have either of them slip and fall, breaking a limb or two. 

When Sherlock’s skin started colouring a healthy red and his shivering had stopped, John turned the shower off and wrapped his moron of a friend in a big towel. He thought, not for the first time, how he didn't need or wants kids when he had a consulting toddler to take care off. The doctor felt his anger dissipate now that he was fairly certain that his friend wouldn't catch his untimely death through pneumonia – although a cold was still not out of the question. Sherlock finally stirred again, took the towel from John and dried himself, quickly and methodically. He threw the implement in the laundry basket and padded towards his room in silence. John sighed exasperatedly, fished the towel back out and hung it up to dry. There was no point in telling Sherlock – again! – about wet towels and mould, he would just delete the information directly afterwards.

John Watson had never been one to put up with annoyances. He could suffer a certain amount of uncomfortableness for his job, especially when he was deployed, but never unnecessarily. All that changed when he met Sherlock Holmes. The man seemed bent on making him as exasperated and irritated as possible, then add some more annoyance for good measure. And just at the point where John thought he might possibly _actually_ explode this time, splattering the walls with guts and brains, Sherlock would give him that little sincere smile of his, or compliment him (he’s gotten better at it over time) and all the anger would dissipate in a matter of seconds. And by God, Watson loved it! He had given up on wondering what was wrong with him.

John sighed again, then took a deep breath through his nose and went back to the kitchen, hoping he would get to have breakfast-supper-whatever in peace now.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was sitting in his slightly damp chair again, purple dressing gown (present from Mrs Hudson for the Christmas he had missed) over new pyjamas, as if he hadn't just been manhandled into taking a hot shower by his best friend. John put a mug of tea near his elbow, on a stack of papers that looked the least unstable, and walked off again. Sherlock didn't move when a whiff of the scent hit his nose, even though it was a pleasurable experience. The hot beverage was exactly as he liked it: teabag steeped for about 2 minutes, a dash of milk and the faintest hint of lemon – just a tiny squirt. 

He sometimes forgot that, even though John may not the most observant person in the world, the doctor noticed the little things that were really important. Like Sherlock’s preference for teashops that served “traditional” English pastry, rather than American donuts (silly things, and much less satisfying than a good ol’ scone). Or how much he liked the smell of a particular laundry detergent – which made Doctor Watson spend an extra twenty minutes on the tube to get Sherlock’s suits to the only dry cleaner’s in London that used the same detergent as they did at home. 

Sherlock had gotten used to John’s quiet care over time. He had missed it greatly when he was away – funny how we only learn to appreciate some things when we no longer have them. The detective frowned at the cliché – what was that doing in his analytic and ordered mind? John came back into the room, carrying his own tea and dinner. Sherlock knew exactly how many slices of meatloaf were on the plate without looking. He also knew that John would take a sip of his tea, burn his tongue, flinch, frown, put the mug down, and not touch it again until it was tepid. Because that was what John always did with his first cuppa of the day – his erratic working schedule didn't change his habits. Good old John. Sturdy. Reliable. Unwavering, like a great oak, able to withstand great storms. Right, poetry again. What was going on with his mind today? Maybe John was right and he was coming down with a cold, after all…

It was not until Sherlock lifted his own mug to his lips that it hit him. For one of the most observant people on the planet, he had been dense. Oh, so, so stupid! How could he not have seen..? Everything was so clear now… Every exasperated sigh, every half-hearted insult, every cup of tea John had ever made him… They all shouted one thing at him, and he had been so, _so_ blind… 

Of course, they were great friends. And he had always known that his own affection went far beyond “mere” friendship. But he had kept himself in check. Because John was – is – his best friend and not worth losing over some silly chemical reaction in his brain (and other parts of his anatomy). All those years… He was an idiot indeed!

“I love you, too.”

John wasn't sure if he had heard what he had heard. And if the words were even directed at him. He didn't even know whether Sherlock had realised he just said… That… Out loud. But the poor doctor nearly choked on his potato all the same. In all of his life, he had never been more sure that he wouldn't _ever_ hear these particular words from Sherlock Holmes. And yet, there they were. Hanging in the air between them like the ghost of Christmas past. John coughed, then swallowed the unfortunate vegetable – crop, whatever – and put his plate down on the coffee table. He dared not look up yet, instead opting for taking a swig of his tea and burning his tongue. Eyes still cast down, he took a deep breath.

“Wh… What?”

“I said, ‘I love you, too’, John. Last I checked, you’re a little too young to be getting deaf already.” There was no real malice in the words. In fact, Sherlock’s tone was uncharacteristically kind. 

_That’s it. I'm going mad. Or this is a joke. Some kind of… Experiment. To see how I respond to verbal stimulation. Or… Or he has figured me out. He knows. And now he’s going to kick me out. Oh dear…_ Before John’s thoughts could become even more morbid, however, Sherlock got up and approached him slowly. His bare feet threaded the carpet like the graceful paws of a lion, stalking its prey. John imagined that Sherlock’s expression was mild and his hands raised, as if he was about to coax a wild animal into a cage. The doctor closed his eyes, refusing to look up and complete his mortification. He felt Sherlock’s lanky body fold itself as he sat next to John on the couch. They stayed like this for a while, until one of Sherlock’s elegant hands came to rest on his friend’s cheek. 

John didn't pull back – he had honestly no idea what was happening, but he was already happy he wasn't being beaten. Not that he had expected Sherlock to get violent, he just… Didn't know _what_ to expect. Feeling soft, cool lips against his own, however, was at the top of the list of things he _didn't_ expect. So he froze and just sat there in utter shock.

Sherlock got worried when his kiss wasn't reciprocated in any way. Was he mistaken? Had his own infatuation made him see things that weren't there? Could he still pretend this was a joke and go back to “normal”? Just then, John finally opened his eyes. There was confusion there, but also hope. And such… Love? Is that what love looked like on a person’s face? John leaned in for a second kiss and all of a sudden, Sherlock’s mind decided that it didn't want to work anymore. _Fireworks…_


	3. Chapter 3

Before Sherlock could deepen the kiss, however, John pulled back, holding him firmly in place by his shoulders. 

“Sherlock. Don’t… Don’t ever lie to me like that again.”

“What…” Understanding shot through the uncharacteristic fog in his mind when he saw _that_ look on John’s face. The expression that made Sherlock wonder why John himself hadn't jumped off a roof in the 2 years he had thought his best friend dead. And be very grateful he hadn't. “John, I have already explained to y-”

“I know,” the doctor interrupted, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s shirt. “I know why you did it. Just… Not again, okay?” He pleaded with his eyes, his face, his entire body.

His companion nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

“Good,” John chuckled. “Now come here, you idiot.”

“I’m n- mmmf, mmkay…” Sherlock had never imagined how pleasant it would be to have someone else’s tongue in his mouth. How little currents of electricity would spark in his brain at the contact, travel down his body and explode in his crotch. And even in his naughtiest fantasies (and they were _naughty,_ indeed), he could never have anticipated how good it would feel to have John touch him. Just _touch,_ nothing else. Skin on skin, tongue on tongue, pushing, pulling, exploring. It was _all_ good, so, _so_ good…

Sherlock must have zoned out for a bit, because next thing he knew, John was straddling him on the suddenly too-narrow couch, hips rocking against each other, hard cocks seeking friction through the harsh fabric of their respective pyjamas. Somebody was moaning embarrassingly loud – Sherlock realised with a shock that it was him. John, however, didn't seem to mind in the _least,_ judging by the increasing speed of the doctor’s thrusts after each moan. The detective was sure he could work out a formula with which to calculate John’s acceleration. Except just then, his friend – lover? – bit him on the neck, and the overwhelming sensations shut his thought processes down again.

John was no spring chicken, as they say, but just being this close to Sherlock made him feel like a giggly teenager. His companion’s graceful body was extremely responsive to even the smallest stimulation, making the older man want to touch and kiss every expanse of skin he could find. Which he did. Manifold. He loved how debauched and out of control Sherlock looked – even for a chaotic genius, he was usually quite composed. However, the doctor could already feel his kneecaps protesting, so he disconnected his lips from his companion’s chest and pulled the dazed man up by the hands – second time that day, he remembered with a chuckle.

“John…” Sherlock complained, but his friend squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“We’re just going upstairs, Sherlock, the couch isn't comfortable. Unless,” he suddenly stopped and frowned, “Unless you’d rather take things slowly?” Sherlock stepped into his personal space and kissed him warmly, detaching his hands and roaming John’s back and arse instead. 

“Absolutely not,” the blonde man heard through his lustful and shut-eyed haze. “We’ll go upstairs immediately, John.” Sherlock bit his earlobe, spurring him into action.

“Right. Yes. Let’s go. Was that consent?”

Sherlock almost kicked him in his impatience. “Yes, John, it was. Now _go!”_

The doctor chuckled, but complied. After all, he was only human.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I just had to Brit ^_^

"Marie Andromeda Turner! You will never believed what has happened!"

"What is it, dear?"

"My boys have finally found each other!"

"Oh, that is marvellous news, dear! I do so hope they're happy."

"Oh, yes, they are. I shall need soundproofing, however."

"Quite. Still, let the young people have their fun, I always say."

"Yes, dear, I am ever so happy for them, but I do believe I'll never forget Sherlock's naked backside."

"Indeed. More tea?"


End file.
